Where The Nettles Grow Tall
by kirsant
Summary: In the bleakness of the Malfoy dungeons, Hermione and Luna's only chance for survival is a small ferret. But will he save them and, if so, at what cost? A sad story with alternate endings.
1. Chapter 1

**Two different endings. One sad, the other less so. The first ending is in this chapter, the second is on the following page. I hope you enjoy.**

 **Harry Potter, it's characters and story belong to JKR.**

* * *

He comes at night.

At least, she thinks he does. She can't be sure. There are no windows here in the dungeons; nothing that lets her see the passage of the sun and moon. Instead, there are bars. And pain. And cold, rough stone. The pain is transitory, sharp spikes that come and go like the flow of the tide, but the cold never leaves. It stays with her always, seeping into bones and making lips go numb. Sometimes, the chill is so strong that she crawls over to Luna, and the two girls huddle together, seeking warmth in proximity.

It's not much, but it makes the cold retreat, if only for a little while.

Luna always whispers when they do this. Usually she's silent, unless the pain and hunger make her cry, but when Hermione nuzzles close, she starts whispering into the brunette's ear, telling her about nargles, crumple-nosed hornbacks and all sorts of mythical beasts.

Hermione knows they aren't real, but the tales allow her to distance herself from reality, and she listens raptly to these whispers in the dark.

It's one of the only two things she has: Luna and _him._

He comes when the cold is at its peak, and the house above has grown still. A quietness descends all around, and it makes her think of a tomb. A grave that she will lie in forever, wasted and forgotten. No one will remember her here, no one will care. It's just her and the void, and the void is slowly winning.

But then the silence is disturbed. There's a soft scurry, and a tapping and the sound of something being dragged across the barren stone floors. Hermione and Luna glance up hopefully, and, indeed, it is him.

He's small and furry and his whiskers are stark white, although they've begun to droop as of late. A ferret.

He always brings them something. It can be a roll of cheese or a slice of ham or a carefully bottled pain potion. Sometimes, the burden of his load is great, and by the time he reaches them his legs are weak, and he collapses, panting shakily.

They pet him gratefully, regardless, and tell him how thankful they are. On rare occasions, the praise makes him preen, but usually he just stares back at them with sad eyes that always grow damp like he's trying to express how sorry he is.

Sorry for everything.

He stays with them an hour or two, letting them cuddle him and rub his soft fur. The tactile touches inevitably bring on memories of happier times. For Hermione, they consist of library stacks with mystical tomes; the comforting glow of the fire in the Gryffindor common room; Crookshanks nestled on her lap, purring staunchly; and, of course, her recollections of two boys, boys that are her best friends, whom she will gladly die for, but she better prepare for that occasion, because it's probably not that far off.

A lump grows in her throat then, and the tears come unbidden. It's not fair. She's only seventeen. She should have a whole life ahead of her, a life with happiness, marriage and kids. She has dreams and aspirations, places she wants to see and books she's planned to read, but has never gotten around to. She's never had sex yet! Never even kissed a boy.

Odds are, she never will.

The ferret presses himself into her chest, right near her beating heart, and Luna's arms wrap around, and she starts again about the nargles and how they live happily in a land far away.

When morning comes – she thinks it's morning, because the cold recedes and the house starts making noises again – the ferret is gone. He might return. He might not.

She hopes he will.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Another day, another trial. Bellatrix has come this time, and she's brought her nephew with her.

" _DO IT, DRACO!"_ she screams. " _JUST DO IT!"_

"Cr– Crucio," the blond finally stutters, but his hands are shaking so hard that the wand is pointing anywhere but at her. The spell, when it comes out, looks nothing like the signature torture curse. Instead, its color is deep-blue, almost lilac, reminding Hermione of the irises she saw when she visited the Pyrenees last year with her parents. Draco's spell hits the ground, four feet to her left, and winks out harmlessly.

Bella spits, looking away in disgust. Then she backhands the blond. The force of the blow is so strong that he slams into the wall behind him, a trail of red creeping down his chin.

Hermione feels sorry for him, which is almost funny, considering her circumstances, but she feels it nonetheless.

"Look how it's done," the mad witch growls then, making Hermione tense in response.

She knows what comes next. She hates herself for it, but a part of her prays that Bellatrix will chose Luna this time. Not her. Please not her. Oh, God, please don't let it be–

Pain rips through her frail body, shredding it like nails, and she screams. She screams until she can scream no more, and only odd gurgles come out. They don't sound human.

They aren't, in a way. She isn't a person right now. The spell has stripped away all the layers of her humanity, leaving only something biological behind; meat; a bundle of stimulated nerves that is being cooked alive.

...When Hermione becomes coherent again, Bellatrix is gone and the cold has returned.

Luna is close by, murmuring softly. Hermione's eyelids flutter; eventually, lulled by the soothing lilt of the Ravenclaw's tone, she dips into a weary slumber. A gentle prodding rouses her soon. It's the ferret, he's brought a potion to ease the aftereffects of Bella's _crucios._ Hermione drinks it groggily, and then her head falls down again, and she drifts away into the lofty realms of sleep.

It's nice there. Her body is free of torment, and she can rest and dream.

She dreams of life.

It doesn't last, of course.

She wakes, and it starts from the beginning. It all repeats, just like before: the pain; the madness, shrieking; the bitter clutches of the war.

It's a demented loop; her personal hell.

And she's afraid that it will never, ever end.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

She doesn't know how much time has passed since Harry and Ron failed to rescue them. A week? A month? A year? Maybe a whole decade has flown by, and she's just withering away, already an empty shell of her former self, mad from torture and pain.

She remembers that Ollivander was executed right after Griphook, but that memory is dim, like a postcard that has slowly faded over time. It's just her and Luna now.

Well, and her thoughts. They're always there.

Sometimes, she thinks about her parents and wonders if they're safe. She wants to hug her dad. Tell mum she loves her. She hasn't said it enough.

Maybe they'll have another child, she hopes. A boy, but not a wizard. Just a regular boy that won't, one day, erase his parents' memories and send them on a voyage from which there is no return.

Other times, Hermione ponders the past and the curious road that brought her here. She recalls her friendships, time spent with Harry and Ron. A desperate fury claws at her soul when her mind turns to them. Why are they free, while she rots away? Why haven't they tried to rescue her again? Have they abandoned her? Do they not care?!

The shameful questions wriggle around like a swarm of worms in a coffin and it can take hours to weed them out, but she always does.

She knows her boys. They must be trying everything. She just needs to hold on, just a little bit more, a day or maybe two, and they'll save her. But, if they don't...

Then she needs to die. Quickly. That thought hurts, but it's the truth of her grim reality, because Voldemort hasn't visited her yet.

She doesn't know why. Probably because he's too busy doing evil...Voldemort things, but the second he descends into this damp, dark dungeon, is the moment the war is lost.

He'll pry her mind open like a rusted tin can and peer into it, discovering everything about the horcruxes they've destroyed and how truly close he is to the edge of oblivion. And she can't let that happen. It's the only chance that they...that Harry and Ron have of winning this war. And she won't betray her friends. She won't let them down.

So, at night, when the ferret comes, she holds him tightly and explains what she can of the situation. Voldemort can't know what she knows, and there are only two ways out: for her to escape the Manor, or for her to die.

She knows the ferret won't risk the first option, so she begs the second. A knife, she asks. Bring me a knife from the kitchen. You don't have to do more. Just a single knife, and I'll take it from there.

The ferret looks at her with hollow eyes, and says nothing. When he returns the following night, there is some meat and even a flask of pumpkin juice, but no sight of the blade she requested.

Still, she tries again. She'll continue to do so till she can't.

And it all goes on.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

There's something different about this night – she can feel it in the air. It's charged, vibrating like an energized particle. It sends shivers down her spine.

The wind howls ominously outside, and here, when she exhales, the vapor from her breath condenses into a thick and ugly cloud. It drifts away slowly, a taunt to her helplessness.

She's scared. Her teeth chatter, and when a dull sound echoes from the upper floors, she jumps.

A door creaks.

A scutter.

Her heart is thumping wildly, a thousand beats a minute. Voldemort? Is it him?

But only a paw emerges, dirty-white. It's the ferret, and, in his teeth, a wand. He scurries up, glancing nervously over his shoulder, slides through the bars of their cage, and transforms.

She's not surprised. She's figured it out long ago – it's the only thing that makes sense.

"Hi, Draco," she says quietly. Calling him Malfoy seems silly now.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he kneels down by their bodies and starts undoing the charms that bind them to this cell stronger than any chains or manacles ever could. She takes a moment to observe him then, noticing the heavy bags under his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and the bruises on his face, all purple and black – signs of Bella's "affections".

All together, he doesn't look much better than her. Just a little more meat on his bones, that's all.

" _He_ is coming," the blond suddenly speaks in a rush, making Hermione's innards tremble with fear. There is only one ' _he'_ whose name can be spoken with such hatred, such fear. Such cowing respect.

Voldemort.

The Slytherin continues to cast, muttering as the magic leaves his wand, tearing into the binding charms.

"Dear Auntie–" the sarcasm is palpable "–has gone to meet her Lord, which means that it'll take some time for her to realize when her spells are broken. You can use that time to run. I'm sorry…" His voice breaks suddenly. "I'm sorry I couldn't do this before. And for everything else...I'm sorry."

His movements are hurried, and his fingers tremble. When the magic holding them vanishes, he helps them rise and both girls hug him, tight.

"Don't be sorry," Hermione says. "It's alright. Just come with us."

"I can't." His voice is hoarse. "He'll kill my parents then, and they're...they're my parents, you know?"

"Let them come with you," she begs. "The Order...we'll protect them, I swear."

"They'd never go, Granger. And they'd never let _you_ go, either. It's just like that."

And there it is: the predicament he's in. It's either them or his parents. And he's made his choice: cast his lot in with two girls he barely knows.

"He'll kill you," she whispers, horrified.

A wan smile flickers on his lips. "Maybe not," he responds, trying to look brave. "I'll beg. I'm good at that. He'll let it pass, I think. Now, take the wand. There's not much time. Linny will lead you out. Linny!"

She tries to get him to change his mind, but he won't. In the end, she presses her lips to his cheek, and Luna gives him a little charm she's made out of the pebbles and straw that line that floor.

"Return it to me later," she says pleadingly, holding it to his chest. He takes it, clutches it so hard that his fingers turn white and nods.

"Now go!" he exclaims, looking at them with lost eyes. Linny, the house-elf, is already here, tugging at their hands so that they can run. "Go!"

...When they make it outside the Manor grounds where they can apparate away, Hermione turns around. She gives the dark, gloomy estate a final glance, praying that one of its inhabitants will find sanctuary from the evil that comes.

She holds that wish, a moment, a breath, and then apparates away.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

...May comes, and the war is over. Voldemort falls in a heap of ash. Hermione doesn't have the strength to care. Her eyes sweep the smouldering battlefield instead, searching for that telltale sight of blond hair.

But she doesn't see it, and her heart clenches. She knows.

She knows.

* * *

 **10 years later.**

Malfoy Manor is a museum now, dedicated to the war and the high costs of prejudice. Draco lies on the far edge of the property, down by the path where the nettles grow tall. Almost no one goes there. Most years, it's just Hermione and Luna, who make their way through the odd twists and turns, using their hands to brush away the creeping foliage and the spider webs that sparkle with morning dew. The path meanders, going to and fro, until it finally comes to an abrupt end at three small grave markers.

The last of the Malfoys.

The two witches don't speak, there's no reason to; by this point, they've established a routine. Hermione kneels down to sweep the leaves and fallen branches from the gravestones; remove the wilted flowers from thier prior visit. Luna walks around, placing little charms on the twigs of trees that ring this mournful place.

There's a lot of them now, the charms, hanging down, twirling with the wind, but each one is unique. Luna works hard, making them. She does it all year.

Inevitably, as she tends to the site, Hermione's mind starts to wander. She wants to think _he'd_ like it here. It's quiet and serene, so unlike the days of the war. Birds chirp merrily, wind rustles through the trees. The sun shines brightly above.

She wants to think it's something _he_ would approve of...but she can't. She can't because she doesn't know. She'd never talked to him, not really. He was a whole person, someone with a personality and likes, dislikes, hopes and dreams, but all she knows is the insults and barbs they traded in school, and that he saved her life at the cost of his own.

And no matter to how many people she has spoken about him, or how much information she gathered, it all seems meaningless because it didn't come from _him._

It is second-hand. A passed-down account. Hearsay.

She'll never get to know that prattish, and foolish, and, in the the end, selfless boy. Never talk to him without the oppressive clout of pureblood bigotry hanging around them like a shroud. Maybe they could have been friends, she thinks. Maybe their children would have become close, playing together while the adults enjoyed good drinks and conversations in another room. Maybe…

But there is no maybe. He'll never have kids, or drinks, or any kind of conversation – good or bad. He managed to become an animagus by sixteen; he must have imagined a glorious future.

One that will never come.

Never...

At this point she breaks down and starts to shake silently, raising her hands – her dirty, smudged, mudblood hands – to cover the trails of tears that stream down her face. Luna has been expecting this; it's happened every time. She hangs up the last of her charms and kneels by her friend, embracing the crying woman in her arms, just like she did so many years ago.

And just like so many years ago, her lips start moving, murmuring the quiet tale of a distant land where creatures roam free.

"He's there," she whispers. "He's happy and safe."

Hermione listens and nods. She trusts Luna; she's learned to believe.

Because how else could she go on?

They leave, eventually, and the sun sets and the moon flies high.

And only the nettles stay, swaying under a gentle breeze. They hush and murmur among themselves over a ring of stones with three small grave markers.

They hush and murmur…

They hush.


	2. Alternative Ending

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the story. It was...emotional to write. So here's a slightly happier ending =)**

* * *

 **Previously:**

...May comes, and the war is over. Voldemort falls in a heap of ash. Hermione doesn't have the strength to care. Her eyes sweep the smouldering battlefield instead, searching for that telltale sight of blond hair.

But she doesn't see it, and her heart clenches. She knows.

She knows.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Twenty-three days to locate her parents.

Four to remove the memory modifying charms.

Two more to ensure the healing holds, and that the repercussions to their health are negligible.

Then, she leaves.

The parting is frosty, which should bother her, but it doesn't.

Briefly, stepping out the door, Hermione wonders if there's something wrong with her now. Would that explain the pit of emptiness in her gut? Is it the reason behind her total lack of remorse, even when her parents were staring in shock after hearing what she'd done?

"Who _are_ you?" her mother had unwittingly let slip, and Hermione ponders that question while apparating to the portkey that will take her back to the British Isles.

She has five minutes till departure, which feel like eternity.

Who am I?

The words clang in her head.

Am I the bookish know-it-all, a teacher's pet with a zen for rules?

The girl who takes her parent's memories, changing their personalities through will and power?

Or am I the fighter, following friends into the bowels of hell to spit into the devil's face?

The prisoner in the dungeon?

The victor, staring at the wreckage of her school and thinking only about a blond boy that saved her life?

Who am I?

The portkey whirls, and takes her away. She leaves the troubling thoughts behind. She doesn't want them haunting her. Of course, they will.

Luna is waiting for her in Diagon Alley. It looks like she wants to say something, but then changes her mind, and they set off together, disappearing in a haze of summer rain.

Their first stop is the library, and that's not surprising.

She is Hermione Granger, after all.

And she's on a mission.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Their foolish quest hinges on hope. The typically fleeting feeling accompanies them daily. It pumps through their veins, drums to the beat of their hearts. It wakes them in the mornings, soothes them to sleep at night.

 _Draco's body was never discovered,_ it whispers, sings, and prays.

 _Never discovered…_

Which means...he could still be alive.

And they will find him, even if it takes years. They promise.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Summer draws to a close, and autumn looms, dressing the world in vibrant shades. The sartorial flair is lost on Hermione, as she pays nature's endeavors no heed. Instead, she spends her days inside hushed expanses of magical libraries, pouring over ancient tomes, searching for scrying spells, detection charms, tracking magic.

Surely, there exists an incantation that would lead her to Draco? Surely?

Time goes by, November comes. Winter's frosty fingers reach from the north, cover the ground with mittens of silky wool. The libraries are abandoned now; instead, Hermione and Luna travel the country, visiting bookstores and archives, seeking out scholars to assist in their quest. Money is tight, but they have a tent.

Hermione can set it up in half a minute now.

At night, when the cold grows bold enough to nip at their exposed faces, the two girls bundle together. Hermione doesn't mind. The warmth of Luna's body is comforting, like a mother's love. She falls into it, and sleeps to quiet tales of made-up creatures.

She likes the stories, even if they are pure nonsense.

On Christmas eve, an old crone points them towards Germany. There, on the banks of the Rhine, in the shadows of the Lorelei's slated slopes, lives an elder that might help. He knows ancient magic, the crone says. Maybe he can find your boy.

They stop by The Burrow before departing. The celebrations are muted. Fred's absence hangs in the air, even though everyone tries their best to look happy.

Harry hugs them both, remarking how thin they have become. Molly fills their plates, and insists on seconds.

Ron is smiling at Lavender, and a tingle of feeling pierces Hermione's heart, passing before she can even give it a name.

When evening darkens the sky, the questions return.

Who am I?

Who?

The moon is a pale bow, sailing across a sea of stars. It shines silently from above, offering no answers. Hermione looks down, a wetness in her eyes. She's so alone.

But then a pair of arms tugs around her shoulders, and Luna's scent, like an alpine meadow in bloom, wafts over.

They sit, sharing no words, just listening to thousands of snowflakes pat the ground. It's quiet, serene, and, somehow, that makes it the best Christmas in years.

By morning, they are gone.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

The elder proves to be a dud, but directs them towards the city of Mainz. From there, they travel to Frankfurt, and then Berlin. In every place they stop, from every interaction, they strive to assimilate new facets of magic, delving deep into the labyrinthine jungle of arcane knowledge. Performing complex charms requires a mastery of the basics, however, and Hogwarts' curriculum for seventh years, gutted by the hostilities, has proved inadequate...for Luna, at least. Hermione missed it altogether.

So they spend nights buried in books and texts on cracking parchment, expanding their command of cryptic sorceries. The days pass in conversations with people eager to share their knowledge, but it's all for naught.

Locating spells fizzle out, and magic fails them over, and over again.

Harry sends a letter explaining that the Death Eater trials are over, and not a single one of their captured foes could share of what happened to the youngest Malfoy. The ones who knew – the powerful ones, Voldemort's inner circle – are all dead, leaving the truth veiled behind Death's door.

Hermione crumples the letter and throws it away.

That evening, they decide to sleep in a hostel. It's a catastrophe.

Hermione wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming. Bellatrix's ghoulishly grinning skull floats in front of her. The eyes are like pits of tar, agate-black, and then the bones move, clacking, screeching. Hermione's ears brim with echoes of the war, and she drowns in the sounds of _crucios_ accompanied by manic laughter.

She screams and screams, and Luna has to leap into her bed to hold her down, running fingers through her curly tresses. "It's just a dream," she whispers, kissing Hermione's forehead. "Just a dream. It's not real."

Gradually, Hermione calms, but by then, the entire dorm is awake, staring at them with alarmed, disgusted, or nauseatingly craving leers.

They stick to the wilds after that.

And time goes on.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

May finds them backpacking through the Austrian Alps. There's a flower that blooms in late spring, growing near frigid mountain brooks at high elevations – an integral ingredient in a ritual they hope will conclude their journey.

They don't find it.

"It's been over a year," Luna suddenly says, and Hermione doesn't understand at first. Realization dawns quickly, however: a whole year has passed since the war's bitterly triumphant end.

And she didn't even notice.

Hermione wants to ponder this, to make herself feel something meaningful, but Luna then squeals, tearing her thoughts away.

"Look!" she exclaims excitedly, "Xebi tracks! A real alpine xebi stood here! Daddy says they come out only on the brightest of days, when the moon outshines the sun!"

Hermione rolls her eyes, but then looks to where Luna is pointing. The green foliage is undisturbed, and yet Hermione stares at it for a long time. She sees no signs of these mythical xebis.

But a part of her wishes she could.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Austria, then Slovenia. Travna, Zilina, Ruzomberok; the cities fly by. Krakow, Lomza, north into the Baltic States. When they inevitably enter urban areas, Hermione always notices her peers – college students on summer break...they seem like aliens to her. She watches them stroll by, carefree, laughing, snapping pics and selfies for future recollection. Their biggest worry is the upcoming academic year, but even that is a light haze in the distance. Now, they wander around, having fun and drinking booze, falling asleep only after a satisfying night of sweaty, simple sex.

They don't fret about the things that trouble her, like inescapable questions of identity. They haven't fought a war.

"Who am I?" she whispers after seeing them go by, and Luna, always near, distracts her with tales of fantastical beasts. Hermione nods along, finding many of the descriptions already committed to memory, but tantalizing nonetheless. She could lecture about nargles by now; hold seminars on the mating habits of wrackspurts.

There's a peace there, in those stories, and she clings to it like a baby to a mother's breast.

By early August, they're in St. Petersburg. The white nights are said to enhance magical potential, amplify the power of spells. They try, but it doesn't work.

Needing a break, they join the tourists in the city, wandering around to gaze upon museums, cathedrals, the Admiralty, and, of course, the royal seat of the Romanov dynasty. They watch bridges lift over the Neva at 3 AM, ships sailing by, lit by cheery lights. The crowds around them laugh and smile, taking photos, and they're drawn into the celebratory atmosphere, a euphoric delight that bubbles through their veins.

Hermione has a cheap phone, and she asks someone to snap their picture.

Years later, it's framed and hanging on the wall, showcasing a moment of magical bliss: Hermione is laughing, trying hard not to sneeze from Luna's hair tickling her cheek, and then blushes crimson when she feels Luna's lips press a quick kiss to her skin.

It's one of the happiest times of her life.

But then it flees; they're on the road again. The rest of the year crawls by.

And then, another one.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Their hope is dim now. It doesn't sing anymore, doesn't shine like the sun. It's slowly dwindled away to an indistinct hum, and they wearily accept the fact that they might never find Draco Malfoy. That he'll just remain in their memories, a lost and broken boy, whose personal file will forever read "MISSING – CURRENT LOCATION UNKNOWN", as it gathers dust in the winding rows of the Ministry's archives.

Hermione and Luna's last night on the continent is quiet. Rain drizzles out of grey clouds, dripping over yellowed birch leaves and nettle stems, down where it turns the dirt into mud. They have a small fire going: glowing embers covered by a magical charm to ward off water. They sparkle in the darkness like rubies in the rough.

The two girls sit closely, lost in conversation as they stare at the waning flames. They discuss nifflers, nargles and nists; argue over ways to attract Gulping Plimpies; agree that October is the best month to find a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Hermione shares this morning's event when she observed the ominous halo of a Sligaskurp circling over Luna's sleeping form. She chased it away, of course. Everyone knows that Sligaskurps are notorious dream-eaters, usually inviting nightmares in their wake.

When she shared this knowledge with Harry, he looked alarmed, staring at her with shocked eyes as if she'd gone mad, but that's not true.

She's perfectly sane, thank you very much. Hermione has a doctor's certificate to prove it.

Luna smiles when she hears about the Sligaskurp, and leans in with a grateful kiss. Her lips taste like late-summer cherries, and she holds her eyes – blue as a mountain lake – wide open, until Hermione can't take it anymore and drowns in their depths.

When the fire has burnt into tiny coals, they retreat to their tent.

In the morning, they pack and return to their homeland.

Britain awaits.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Their final hope is Trelawney. Maybe a seer can succeed where magical detection and studies into scrying charms could not. Hermione sits across from the frail woman, picking up traces of liquor in the cup near the professor's hands. Trelawney shifts, staring down into tea leaves, mumbling about omens and portents and other mystical mumbo-jumbo that is as separated from reality as–

Hermione, distracted by the zing of a humdinger, doesn't finish the simile.

Luna waits patiently nearby. They haven't come here for bone-tossing, palm-reading, or other dubious tricks. They want a vision. A real vision, like Trelawney had with Harry, or when she spoke to Dumbledore so many years ago, setting off a sequence of events that would reverberate through the decades to come.

But the old professor just gets progressively more drunk, until her words are too slurred for comprehension, and Hermione has to help her to a cot. She glances at Luna, who quirks her lips in a pitiful smile and then glances away, wiping her eyes with a quick swipe of her hand.

It's a dead end. The last one.

"Who am I?" Hermione suddenly wonders out loud when they pass the school's gates. The answer to that question is still outside her reach, even though it's been years.

All that times seems wasted now. Just...gone. Forever.

They leave Hogwarts without looking back.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

She supposes they've come full circle.

In all fairness, she could not have handled this before. This place...it holds bad memories.

Luna's steadying hand is on her shoulder, though, and that gives her the courage to step through. On the other side of the Malfoy gates, she breathes a little easier. The jump is always the hardest, after that it's just simple momentum.

They walk across the grounds of the old, pureblood property, circumnavigating the Manor. Its once immaculate facade is ruined with spell damage. The roof is leaning, windows blasted out, and the ivy has overgrown, climbing up to the third floor.

It's an image of downfall.

Both girls are jittery, hands clasped tight. Neither would be able to step inside the walls of their old prison, but, thankfully, that is not their goal. Their destination lies to the north of the home, down by the path where the nettles grow tall. Two humble grave markers stand at its end; Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy lie beneath the simple stones.

Hermione wants to say something to them, and that's why she's here. She doesn't know what. Will she apologize for failing their son? Will she curse them for their bigoted ways? Weep at life's cruelty? Confess her sins?

All she knows is that she needs closure. And to find the answer to that one cursed question...Who am I?

Who?

They follow the path's curves, brushing away the leaves that hang low and the spider webs between them. It's a slow journey, with heaviness in every step, as if the whole weight of the world is riding on their shoulders. The burden is great, and yet they trudge on. The path meanders, thinning to a tiny line until it expands, and the last turn is angled sharp, even as they see the clearing ahead. Their hearts are thumping wildly, desperation in their souls.

This will be the place of their forfeit, a vocal acknowledgement that the promise once given – to find Draco Malfoy no matter the cost – is now broken.

They want to live their lives. They want peace and a future.

They make the turn...and freeze.

It's impossible.

A hallucination?

An illusion?

No.

It's just a ferret.

He's sitting near the two graves, fur dirty-white. They know him. He's been in their memories for years, played first string in their dreams. He saved them, and they've been looking for him ever since.

When they approach him, he doesn't run. Just stares curiously until they pick him up and, softly, gently, just like they did those years ago, run their fingers through his fur, when he was the only thing keeping them alive.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

"It makes sense now why all your tracking spells failed," says the doctor at St. Mungo's thoughtfully. "He's regressed into an animalistic state, calling upon atavistic hereditary traits to survive. It happens with animagi sometimes. They lose themselves in the animal, become feral."

"The magic still would have found him," Hermione argues, and the doctor nods.

"It would have," he agrees, "if not for the complicating factor. Our animagus is an accomplished occlumens, it seems. He's shielded himself – his thoughts and feelings – behind so many walls that even he doesn't know he's human. His personality is completely repressed. For all intent and purposes, he _is_ a ferret."

"But why would he do that?" Luna murmurs.

"It could be the result of heavy trauma; the human body can do marvelous things to survive. Muggles, when faced with something they cannot handle, may enter a fugue-like state, as their brain simply shuts down most higher cognitive functions. But our patient is a wizard, and a capable one at that. His magic and abilities would have played their role. Or, maybe," the doctor offers another theory, "maybe it was a purposeful action...a defense mechanism, if you will. He disappeared during the war, yes? Fleeing from You-Know-Who? He would have used anything to hide from such a powerful wizard. Occluded his thoughts, compartmentalized his identity, hiding it behind the likeness of an animal...and it worked. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Names did not discover him. Except the patient was stuck, unable to recognize his own humanity, and the magic has held all these years…"

"But can you?" Hermione beseeches. "Can you help him, can you get him out? We found him at his parents' graves; obviously that requires some thought process!"

"We can return him to human form," the doctor explains, "but, as for the mind…"

He hesitates, pinching the bridge of his nose between gnarled fingers.

"Tell us!"

"The mind is a fragile and infinitely complex thing," he says. "And Draco Malfoy has been an animal for years, while his own consciousness was locked behind powerful occlumens shields. I...I don't have any cases to compare this to. Animagi are so rare...I just can't say. It's possible we may be able to retrieve him; conversely, he may stay like this forever, acting like he's only a ferret."

"Try," Hermione pleads. "Do your best, and we'll do ours. Please."

"Of course, Ms. Granger. Ms. Lovegood."

And he walks away.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

Hermione and Luna trade days, sitting by Draco's side. He's unresponsive, a captive of a coma that has persisted from the moment the medical staff forced him out of ferret form. He just fell immediately after, and the prognosis is unknown.

But the girls don't despair. The read him stories, tell him of their days. They believe he hears them, somewhere deep down inside, and every morning they beg him to return.

He stays silent. His eyes don't move. The staff has to gently wipe them every day, although Hermione and Luna do that now.

It's hard. He's so close. So far.

Months go by; Spring is here.

Hermione sits in a chair, an open book resting in her lap. She's paused her reading, staring out of the window and onto the colorful gardens below. She doesn't see their brightness, nor the flourish of spring.

Instead, the question is back, banging on the walls of her cranium.

A question she has never discovered an answer to and, probably, never will.

"Who am I?" she whispers once more, and suddenly hears a cough from the bed.

"You're daft," croaks a voice she hasn't heard in years. She whirls around, and he's looking straight at her.

"Don't you know?" Draco huffs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You're Granger."

* * *

 **The biggest surprise to me, when I was writing this, was where Hermione and Luna's relationship went. I honestly didn't envision that, it just sorta...happened.**


End file.
